Who Cut the Cheese?

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
An evil dictator is trying to control a world of cheese.

Submitted: September 09, 2012

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Submitted: September 09, 2012



Chapter One: Ghuda Gone

Barrot the Black stood upon the balcony of his magically constructed tower of moldy, festering cheese and smiled. Well, he was always smiling as liches have no lips, but this time he meant it. His evil plan to conquer every cheese factory of the kingdom of Fro mage was near fruition. There was only one small section of land that held on to their few cheese bearing operations that threatened to ruin his monopoly on all the cheese production in the kingdom. Held by a small, gouda loving band of rebels, it would not be long before he would crush them with his relentless army of wild, angry, motza golems, who feared no weapon made by man or anything really as golems were mindless automatons who could not possess emotions as they progressed in their holy quest, though they had to travel at night or cloudy days as the relentless sun of the Southern lands would turn them in to melts san toast and that to Barrok was a perfectly good waste of cheese and those who wasted the yellow nectar would feel his evil wraith with the up most severity. He might even put in his favorite tongue so he could give them a proper lashing.

The great defiler of all that's gouda heard metal footsteps on the threshold, but he did not turn to see who it might be. Few were allowed the privilege to enter his private sanctom at the heart of the cheddar maze tower. Truth be told, his minions being mostly undead and thus leaving most of their wits with their long abandoned and soiled soul frequently got lost and this was the main reason the evil undead lord was undistrubed, or perhaps it was the his limburger robes that precluded the opportunity for a sneak attack from many miles away. Regardless, the reasons for his solitude were not important as long as he was left that way. He had musings to muse, evil plots to hatch and spent alot of time in the tub. Oh, how he loved his bubble baths.

A voice coughed behind him, "Yes, Lord Icefist, speak."

Armor rattled as the mostly metal minion composed himself and figured out the best way to approach telling the demented demonic that things were not all yogurt and cream cheese in his realm. "My master," groaned the armor, still fidgeting, though glad his nose was frozen and long fallen off lost somewhere in the tundra of his home. He was one of the few who could get this close to the necromancer without wishing he had not eaten their previous meal.

"Well, out with it, though I love to hear you call me that, if this is not important I'll have the cook melt you and I'll be having sherbert for dessert this night."

Lord Icefist let out an icy sigh, not that he was angry or resigned to his fate as the chief of the great lich's armies, but being a possessed suit of Frost Dragon armor he tended to come off as rather cold to every one. It also put a crimp in his dating (but that's another matter we'll deal with later on). "My lord, the peasants are revolting."

"Of course they are, they're peasants. Ever get up close and personal with one of those sorry lot, rags for clothes, no teeth, no shoes, and the smell. Times like those I'm glad I don't have a nose. They make good zombies, though, but to be honest sometimes I'm not sure which are which less I poke them with a sharp stick. The one that doesn't complain so much is usually the zombie. Course there was that chap from Legume, now there was a fellow you could poke with a stick all day long and he never complained even when you poked him in the eye. Took the fun out of poking people with a stick, really. I mean..."

Lord Icefist let the Lich continue to ramble. He knew better than to disturb him when he was on a roll, especially when he was talking about poking people with a stick. It was his second favor thing, next to this campaign to bring all the kingdoms' cheese resources under his evil power. So, the possessed suit of Frost Dragon armor waited, and waited and did some more waiting, and then waited a little bit longer, caught the house boys eye and got him to bring him an ice latte, waited some more, oh he's about finished....no, waited some more, wished he slept but enchanted armor do not, and finally...no, still rambling, slouching though his mother told him not to, more waiting and then,yes...

"And that's the reason you should never put a potato in a man's eye socket. Oh, Lord Icefist, what in blazes are you still doing here and stand up straight! Didn't your mother ever warn you against slouching?"

"Yes, my lord, just before I turned her in to the local constable for pocket money. (At this point he was glad he didn't sleep, though his mind had wandered back to the days when he actually wore his suit of armor and wasn't a part of it. "My master, the peasants in the village of Gouda have vanished. I sent a regiment to secure it and its cheese making facilities, but a scout returned and told us it was deserted along with all their holdings of cheese."

"What!!!," fumed the Lich as rather noxious fumes poured from his ears. Lord Icefist was also glad he had no nose. The page bringing the evil lord his ice latte wasn't so lucky. He had a nose. He had a heart attack and with a flick of the lich's evil, skinless pinky finger was raised into a zombie page and while he no longer could smell and he tended to bump into things more and spill the contents of the tray he was carrying. They later had to let him go and he wound up working for another evil denizen who was less demanding (but that's another story). "Where could they have gone?"

"We have no idea, my master," offered Icefist as he sipped his ice latte (actually he pretended to sip his ice latte, but in actuality, having no lips, mouth, tongue or other part of anatomy he had to satisfy himself with just making slurping and smacking sounds), "Slurp, smack, slurp, Burp, the wilds around the village have never been mapped.”

"Never been mapped, you say," ponder Barrok as he scratched his chin and wished he had a beard to fiddle with as he contemplated this fact, "Did you check with Woz the map maker?"

"Ummm, slurp, smack, burb, he has been rather uncooperative since you loped off his legs and put him in the lowest dungeon in the tower."

"Really, how ungrateful..."

"Smack, burb."

"Go see him again and if he doesn't help you, tell him I will regenerate his legs, lop them off again and continue to do so until he capitulates."

"Yes, my Master, Fart, I will do so at once." Lord Icefist sighed again and made his way back out of the Lich's chambers. Dealing with Woz the map maker would not be easy, no matter what threats were made.


Lord Icefist made his way down the winding staircase that ran through the evil Lich's tower. The entire tower was made of cheese and he wondered who the genius was to make the staircase out of Swiss as he once again toppled the last four flights to the foot of the long staircase. He landed in a hump and a lump and his armored body had been became dismembered and his legs, arms, head and such lay in disarray at the bottom.

"Sigh," he muttered aloud, "I knew I should have had my leather straps replaced long ago. Their warranty expired last spring. His arms and legs flipped and flopped no longer controlled by the dominating head and his left arm scuttled down the corridor. "Darn, have to track down that mutinous body part again. Don't I polish you enough, oil you regularly, you ungrateful hunk of frost mail." His shout echoed down the corridor, waking the dead, which really peeved Barrok the Black who had just started his afternoon nap.

The lich stuck his head out the door of his chambers at the top of the tower, "What's all the ruckus? Don't you know its nap time? Who is bellowing…who...don't make me get the herring?" Lord Icefist kept quiet, not wanting to face another beating from the Lich, who after getting no response harrumphed, adjusted his sleeping cap and went back to his nap.

Lord Icefist looked down the corridor that led to the kitchen, hoping to find someone to help him get things together. Eventually, a zombified denizen of the tower appeared out of the kitchen carrying a tray. "You there," called the frosty lord, " see if you can find something to carry me to the Artificer, Shadowbranch, it seems I have come unglued." The zombie would have come back with a smart remark, but then zombies were not known for their quick wits as their brains are mostly composed of rotting brain goo, worms and the occasional rat. Of course, worms can on occasion by very witty, but not too many people get worm jokes beside, well, worms.

"What did the sediment say to the granite," just by chanced riddled one worm to another worm inside the brain of the zombie who was trying to decide what to do with the pile of armor that was giving orders on the floor.

"Dunno," said the other worm as it wiggled through a rather delicious piece of brain matter.

"C'mon guess," replied the riddling worm, "you never want to guess."

"Well, you make the riddles too hard."

"No, I don't," replied the riddling worm as it wriggled manacingly closer to the obviously clueless worm, "you're just an idiot."

"You're the idiot," retorted the clueless worm.

"Can you two keep it down," jeered another worm that had just came in from a stroll between its hosts ear canal and nasal passages, "Always the same with you two. Bickering! Makes a bloke want to find another moldy, decomposing brain to live in, it does."

"Sorry," chimed the two worms arguing over who was stupider. The perturbed worm continued his daily exercise and luncheon (nice thing about being a worm you can eat and stroll at the same time and though you may get food on you that's ok, because you rarely wear nice things when on a jaunt).

The head was quiet for a bit except for bits of brain matter trying to fire off a few synopsizes still trying to figure out how to clean up the mess at the bottom of the stairs. It knew enough in its addled brain that the boss who yelled a lot and liked to hit people with fish would not be pleased if it left it there and it was pretty sure that this was the boss who also liked to yell, but hit you with less fish and more fists. It ambled off down the corridor with its tray of tea and assorted cheeses taking it to the dumb waiter to be taken to the boss who loved cheese and hated radishes. The dumb waiter took the tray, though he was actually a little smarter than the dumb waiter that had handed it to him as he had less riddle telling worms feasting on his brain matter, but there's always one, isn't there. A worm can't find a decent brain to wriggle through with out some worm throwing out blasted riddles at random. There aught to be a law, thought the wandering worm as it transferred itself to the slightly smarter dumb waiter and wouln't you know it there was some bloody cheeky worm telling a riddle.

"What do you get when you cut a worm in half," riddled the cheeky worm riddler as it wriggled in the slightly smarter, dumb waiter's wriggled brain matter.

"Oh, do shut up," jeered the strolling worm and newest worm wriggling in the SSDWB (Slightly smarter dumb waiter's brain; What? I’m getting tired of typing that out every bloody time).

"What did I do," asked the CWR (cheeky worm riddler; What? I'm bloody lazy, wanna have a go, then?).

"Oh, forget it," bellowed the SWANWW in the SSDWB (like I'm going to type all that, get off your lazy butts and reread will you).

Confused, the CWR (still haven't figured it out, look up Laziness in the dictionary and you'll see my picture, suitable for scaring rats and small children away, also small children with rats, and large rats with small children, though it doesn't work for bugs, don't ask me why) forgot the answer to his riddle and spent the next several hours in worm brain spasms trying to remember it and died from an aneurism. A small ceremony was held, mostly friends and family, though his 3rd cousin on his mother's side did manage to make it to the reception coming from far, far away, his home actually being in the SSSDWB (not going there), but not the actual ceremony, but was later booted out for partaking in too much fermented, moldy brain matter. (Always got to be one at a party, doesn't it?)

Meanwhile, Lord Icefist whistled while he waited for the waylaid dumb waitor (say that 10 times fast), who did eventually return, but sadly not before the evil lord of all things frosty missed his own beauty rest (well, you can't nap when you're falling to pieces can you?) and was looking slightly tarnished by the time the SMSDW returned with an old wheel barrel that was used for cleaning up bird droppings and other fecal matters, but luckily neither the zombies nor Lord Icefist could smell and thus the icy icon did not complain when his very parts and bits were up hoisted rather unceremoniously (well, the trumpet player and Sargeant at Arms were playing poker, the TP getting sore about it and eventually they tussled and the TP broke his trumpet over the SA head, hiding the body in the broom closet as no one ever went there as a)there were no brooms due to brooms made of cheese don't handle well under brooming pressure and b) the local broomball league had nicked the rest for the semi finals, which they lost due to the above mentioned reason. The TP then went to the broomball game where he played rather poorly and was himself beaten and stuffed in said broom closet (fitting, don't ya think).

The worms on the other hand that infested SMSDW (yeah, yeah, I could spell this out or take a nap. Which do you think I am more likely to do?) thought the contents of the wheel barrow smelled quite delightful and on mass departed SMSDW who became VSDW and left the castle with his new found awareness and ran for local magistrate, won, but was later impeached for not being human and was hung by the neck until he was dead, but then discovering that he was already dead was tossed in prementioned closet normally set aside for brooms but now bearing more of a mortuary motif which made the actual tower mortician rather unhappy as his last morgue was much larger, had a snack vending machine, and had better lighting. The WWFOM were devoured by the rat currently residing in the evil Lord's helmet who was a bit of a loner and didn't get along well with other rats mostly as he hated rat riddles, which again there is always one in the crowd who has to come up with them. Sadly, the HR later died due to CVF and was eaten by a RLFS before medics could arrive.

Lord Icefist sat in the wheelbarrel hoping that a WIDW would soon come to his aid.

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